


More than Starlight

by little_blue_ducky



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Harry Potter, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Falling In Love, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Getting Together, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Healer Draco Malfoy, M/M, Slow Build, Tattoos, coffee and tea, draco is the healer who's always there to put him back together, harry is a clumsy idiot, hospital food, the chapter titles have alliteration in them what more could you want
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-31
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-19 21:44:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17609567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_blue_ducky/pseuds/little_blue_ducky
Summary: Nine years after the war, Harry lives alone in an oversized London flat and searches for meaning by burying himself in his investigative work. He never expects to find a kindred soul in one Draco Malfoy.With its two bedrooms and enviable kitchen, the flat with a largely unobstructed view of the Thames had cost a fortune to buy, but eighteen-year-old, lovestruck Harry had believed he’d already won the lottery in his engagement to Ginny Weasley, soon to be Potter.Six months later, all he had left was a gaping chasm in his bank account, an oversized flat with a lonely view, and a matching pair of engagement rings.What happens when two sides of the same coin collide? Romance! Intrigue! Criminal conspiracies! It's all here, folks. May contain: ridiculous boys who can’t handle their feelings, characters being constantly tired, and an abundance of hospital food.





	1. Feuds and Fractures

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so if I were a responsible person in any way, this fic would not exist and I'd be either: (a) working on my English assessment for next week; or (b) writing the other fic I'm currently in the middle of. However, it pains me greatly but this story exists, as evidence that the procrastination monkey in my brain is at the steering wheel again (go watch the TED talk if you haven't seen it).
> 
> It's the classic Auror!Harry/Healer!Draco trope, which probably has a thousand fics already, but can you really ever have enough? Good, I didn't think so.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

It began, as many things do, with a fractured wrist.

“I’m _fine_ ,” insisted Harry for the fifth time. “It’s probably just a minor sprain.” He gingerly attempted to roll it, only to suppress an audible wince as pain radiated throughout his hand in waves.

Kingsley gave him a pointed look that conveyed his opinion that Harry was in need of not only an examination for his wrist, but also for his brain. “Harry, look, you’re of no use to me or this mission if you can’t even hold a wand properly.”

Harry felt as though he were watching his past weeks of late-night research and Thai-takeaway-flavoured frustration draining into the gutter. “But, sir – ”

“We’ll handle it without you,” said Kingsley dismissively, waving away his protests. “Now take yourself to St. Mungo’s and – do us all a tremendous favour, would you – don’t fall off any more ledges. Mind you, if you really must trip off a ledge, make sure it’s one storey high. That’s an order from your superior.”

Gritting his teeth in exasperation and a fair dosage of pain, Harry picked up his wand with his left hand and Apparated with a swift _crack_. Within the span of one blink, his surroundings had melted away and into the immaculate white walls and nauseating aroma of disinfectant that was characteristic of St. Mungo’s Hospital.

The witch at the reception desk jumped when she glanced up from her outdated issue of Witch Weekly to see him approaching. “Mr. Potter,” she exclaimed with rounded eyes. “How may I help you?”

He waved his wrist sheepishly in the air. “Sprained wrist, I reckon.”

“Of course, of course. Just fill in your details here and a Healer will be with you shortly.” She handed him a form and then gestured to a box of Self-Writing Quills on the other end of the counter.

Nodding his thanks, Harry found an empty chair in the corner of the reception area to complete the form. Once he had given it to the receptionist and returned to his seat, he found a girl of seven or eight staring wide-eyed at him from the row in front while her mother flicked through the pages of Witch Weekly.

“Hello,” he said, offering a small wave of his uninjured hand.

She craned her head to either side before turning back to him, as though double-checking that he wasn’t talking to somebody else. “Are you Mr. Harry Potter?” she whispered, in an awe-filled breath.

“That’s me.”

Her soft gasp brought a hint of amusement to his lips, despite the ceaseless pain of his right hand. “My mommy loves you!” She glanced hastily at her mother after making the declaration, but appeared satisfied by the witch’s lack of reaction as she continued in the next breath. “I’m getting my letter from Hogwarts this year – I’m going to be in Gryffindor, just like you.”

“Are you?” said Harry, now openly grinning at the determined squint of her eyes. It reminded him of another young witch he had the pleasure of knowing from Hogwarts, who had never let anything or anyone stand in her way once she had set her mind to a task, be it receiving straight O’s or defeating the Dark Lord. “Call me biased, but that’s the best House for sure. Still, it doesn’t matter which House you’re in. Some of the bravest men and women I’ve ever met weren’t Gryffindors, or even Hogwarts students. You can even take over the world as a Hufflepuff, if you’d like.”

She giggled and Harry beamed right back, pleased to have made her laugh.

“Potter?” came a low, languid drawl that Harry had never imagined he would hear again.

The world seemed to freeze around him for a heartbeat as he raised his head to meet Draco Malfoy’s piercing grey eyes, focused on him with an intensity that made it difficult to breathe. Loose strands of his pale hair, no longer constrained by magical hair product, swept into his eyes and he took one hand off his clipboard to tuck them behind his ear.

It took another heartbeat, as the hospital surroundings seemed to spring back to life, for Harry’s mouth to regain its ability to produce sounds. “ _Malfoy_?”

He narrowed his eyes at Harry, as though expecting a fiery insult. Oh, how some things would never change; the easy familiarity of their childhood rivalry almost tempted Harry to hurl anger at him, for the sake of that eleven-year-old who had never seen either war or death, much less survive both of them.

When the insults didn’t come, Malfoy shifted his weight to his other foot, appearing briefly uncertain about his place in the world. He remarked, “Never expected to hear the Defeater of the Dark Lord preach world domination to little children.”

Harry flushed with a strange sense of embarrassment. “I wasn’t…I was just talking to her, keeping her company, you know – what are you doing here?”

“I happen to work here, Potter,” replied Malfoy, with a disbelieving scoff. Harry wanted to smack himself across the face for not realising the connotations of his lime-green robes. “Maybe you need to get your eyes checked out – _again_.” As far as insults went, that one seemed to fall a little short, but Harry didn’t bother pointing it out before Malfoy gave a long-suffering sigh and flicked his gaze toward the clipboard. “Well, what are you waiting for? Hurry up, I do have other patients, you inconsiderate oaf.”

Without waiting to see if Harry would follow him, he spun on his heels and began to stride briskly down the hallway. Hurriedly, Harry waved good-bye to the little girl and jogged to catch up. As they navigated the maze of rushing witches and wizards dressed in varying shades of green, Harry realised for the first time how much Malfoy had grown in the past nine years, whereas Harry himself had remained roughly the same height since Hogwarts. With every stride that the Slytherin took, Harry was forced to take two small, quick ones to compensate.

By the time they stopped in front of an empty bed, Harry was nearly out of breath, only able to maintain his composure due to years of Auror physical training.

“So,” said Malfoy in an abruptly business-like tone while he scanned the clipboard. “Injured wrist?”

Perching on the edge of the bed, Harry held it out obediently for Malfoy to examine. Without hesitation, Malfoy curled slender fingers around his wrist, his touch far gentler than Harry would have ever imagined. He couldn’t resist a shiver – from the pain, of course – as Malfoy traced the bones of his wrist with the tip of his index finger.

After a moment, Malfoy withdrew his hand and muttered something under his breath. Then, he cleared his throat and said in a louder voice, “It’s a scaphoid fracture. The bones have been displaced here.” He took Harry’s left hand in his own and indicated the base of his thumb with a light tap. “I’m going to have to re-align the bone fragments before giving you some Skele-Gro. You’ll need to wear a cast for two to three days and avoid using it too much for the next week.”

Harry nodded slowly, taken aback by how instantly he trusted Malfoy’s treatment. Perhaps it was the robes and the sense that Malfoy’s frown was one of careful concentration as he drew his wand in preparation, rather than one of suspicion or hatred.

Tapping his wand thrice upon Harry’s wrist with a quick murmur of a spell, Malfoy tucked his wand back into the pocket of his robes. Harry’s entire forearm tingled with a chilly sensation, but he was too preoccupied with watching quiet satisfaction flood Malfoy’s face, causing his lips to quirk at the corners. The sight of the smiling, golden-haired man before him contrasted sharply with the deathly pale, vacant-eyed boy who had picked silently at his meals across the Great Hall throughout the entirety of sixth year – not that Harry had been staring or anything, mind you.

His eyes flicked from Harry’s wrist to Harry’s face, and the smile promptly melted from his mouth. “I’ll bring the Skele-Gro,” he said, and left the room with a swish of green robes.

Harry raised his wrist to examine closely, giving the angry, swollen area a curious prod. While it still stung, the touch on his skin reminded him of the pride that had filled the Slytherin’s face, and he couldn’t help but smile to himself.

Perhaps visiting St. Mungo’s wasn’t so bad, after all.


	2. Talks that Taste of Toffee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Guess who just finished her English exam and can finally begin to get back all her lost hours of sleep? Happy Thursday, and hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think xx

A blinding flash of red whizzed past Harry’s shoulder and slammed into a nearby tree, effectively scorching a head-sized hole in the centre of the trunk. Smoke wafted into the evening sky in thick fumes.

Biting back a loud curse, Harry leapt away from the sizzling tree and scanned the forest for any signs of movement, unable to bear how exposed he felt without a partner at his back. The thought of Ron rushing to the Ministry for backup offered scarce comfort, surrounded as he was by unseen assailants who were more than happy to burn half off of his body.

Another bright flash, this time tinged with blue, flew toward him, only to splinter itself upon hitting his hastily erected shield.

“Come on, Ron,” he muttered, aiming his wand toward the source of the spell. “Any time now.”

He fired a _Stupefy_ into the general direction of the spell, and was satisfied by the dull thud of a body falling to the earth. As he turned in place, wand poised at the ready, he was suddenly greeted by a commotion of shouts and crackling sounds, as well as a colourful array of lights through the dense woods. Bursting through the undergrowth, a familiar mop of red hair was the first thing he saw, followed by a group of Aurors levitating six unconscious bodies among them.

“Ron!” he cried, dropping the Shield Charm to greet his best friend.

After squeezing his bones within a one-armed hug, Ron held Harry at arm’s length to frown at him. “You look terrible,” he pronounced between panting breaths.

“Hey, you’re not exactly winning any beauty pageants yourself,” said Harry indignantly, observing the bright flush of exertion on his friend’s cheeks.

Ron raised an eyebrow. “You’re _bleeding_ , Harry.”

Harry glanced down at himself to discover a trickle of warm blood along his left side, where a spell had narrowly grazed his skin. As the adrenaline rush of the fight drained from his veins, the pain was beginning to set in. “It’s just a bit of a graze, nothing serious.”

“Still,” pointed out Ron, “you ought to have it checked out. I know you hate hospitals, but the mission’s already over now, so you might as well – ”

“I’ll go,” interrupted Harry.

“ – go, in case it was a curse or something – ” Ron broke off mid-sentence to stare at him. “Wait, what?”

“I’ll go to St. Mungo’s. My wrist’s a little sore, too, anyway. I don’t think the doctor’s orders were to engage in a wand fight less than a week after fracturing the bone.”

“Okay,” said Ron dumbly, looking bewildered. “Uh, sure. Fantastic. Well, we’ll just get these perps locked up. You okay to Apparate there by yourself?”

Harry patted him on the shoulder. “Yeah, thanks, man. I’ll see you on Sunday, yeah?”

“Bring along some good wine,” Ron reminded him. “Hermione’s going to try and cook this time. She’s been reading all these Muggle cookbooks.” His face pulled into a grimace that revealed how successful her prior attempts had been.

“I’ll be there,” promised Harry. Then, he raised his wand and whisked himself away from the darkened depths of the forest.

He landed just inside the front door of the hospital. The welcome witch greeted him with a wide scowl that befit the frenzy within the building, as Healers and nurses alike rushed patients inside. As he approached the reception desk, he passed a middle-aged wizard with a deep gash down one side of his face that revealed the stark white of his cheekbone.

He shuddered before turning to the receptionist. “Hello,” he offered lamely. “What’s going on here?”

She set down her Witch Weekly magazine to flick a disinterested glance toward the commotion. “Some teens decided it’d be a good idea to steal a Muggle party bus and charm it to fly.” She shook her head disapprovingly. “Young, dumb, and drunk off their minds – add in some Muggle technology that hates magic, and you’ve got the recipe for twelve severe casualties and three injured Muggles who were hit by a bus falling out of the sky.”

Harry looked at his sore wrist and the growing darkened patch on his crimson robes, suddenly feeling ridiculous for taking up a Healer’s precious time when fifteen lives were on the line. Just as he was about to dismiss himself, however, brisk footsteps and a familiar voice broke in through the turmoil.

He looked up in time to see Malfoy’s eyes slide from the stack of parchments in his arms to freeze on Harry. He stopped in the middle of the busy corridor, cutting off a conversation with a freckled witch clad in the pastel green robes signifying a nurse’s position.

“For Merlin’s sake, Potter, what are you – ” His eyes zeroed in on the floor tiles, where the blood from Harry’s side had dripped into a pathetically sized pool. When he spoke next, his words emerged in a breathy hiss. “ _What happened_?”

“Oh, it’s really nothing – just a scratch. Anyway, I should be getting home right about now.”

Through gritted teeth, as though the words were clawing up his throat to tear out of his mouth, Malfoy turned to the receptionist and said, “Della, I’ll be taking Potter here.” He then levelled a hard look at Harry that made it clear he wouldn’t take no for an answer, before saying something in a low voice to the nurse and setting off down the hall.

Della rolled her eyes and scribbled something down. Harry hesitated for another moment before chasing after Malfoy’s disappearing back.

As he sat on an unoccupied bed, Harry tried to shut out the pained moans of the elderly witch lying beside him while nurses worked furiously on her.

“I repeat,” said Malfoy, “what happened to you?”

“Well, there was a field mission. We – me and Ron, I mean – were following these potion smugglers to a meeting point so we could catch them in the act, but someone had tipped them off, so they ended up ambushing us in the woods. Ron went to go get backup while I made sure they wouldn’t run off again.”

“Typical Gryffindor behaviour,” said Malfoy, his lip curling with visible contempt. “I expect you were caught by a hex?”

“Apparently.” Harry shrugged, then winced as the movement stretched his wound. “My hand started to hurt again, by the way.”

Malfoy scoffed, even as he leaned closer to examine the wrist in question. “No wonder, if you’re going to run about slinging spells in a bloody forest.” A beat of silence. “Well, what are you waiting for, a written invitation? I’m going to need you to lift up your robes if you want me to actually see the wound.”

After a beat too long, Harry slowly rolled up his scarlet robes on one side. Malfoy pressed his fingers against the skin surrounding the wound, his fleeting touches like little, icy pinpricks on Harry’s body. While Malfoy summoned a roll of bandages, Harry used their close proximity to study the blond Healer.

Up close, he could see the heavy shadows underlining Malfoy’s eyes and the fatigue that pulled his lips taut, etching lines on his face that made him look several years older than he was in reality. His silvery blond hair hung limply around his ears, distraught with tangles and clearly unwashed. On the front of his robes, specks of blood had dried into brown stains.

“How shocked the world would be,” Malfoy muttered while he wrapped a layer of bandages around Harry’s side, “if they found out their great Saviour could bleed just like the rest of us.”

“You look terrible,” blurted Harry, unintentionally repeating Ron’s earlier observation.

Malfoy’s hands faltered in their ministrations. “Gee, thanks, Potter.” His voice sounded bitter, brimming with suppressed anger, and Harry regretted his words immediately, if only because he somehow doubted the Malfoy he had known in school would have ever attempted to suppress his anger. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve been busy saving lives for the past – what, three days?”

“Three days?” echoed Harry dumbly. Surely Malfoy hadn’t –

Malfoy inspected the face of his silver wristwatch. “Seventy-six hours and counting.”

Harry frowned at him. “How are you still alive?”

“Oh, yes, I’d bet you’d love to see drop dead, wouldn’t you? You wouldn’t have to try again, after all.” Malfoy’s mouth formed a smile that wasn’t quite so amused as it was irritated. Harry internally winced at the implications of his words as horror expanded in his throat until hardly any oxygen could enter. “So sorry to crush your hopes and dreams, but my body’s already accustomed to it. Give me some cardboard-flavoured cafeteria coffee and I’ll be ready to go.”

Swallowing back his guilt like a bitter pill, Harry argued, “No one should be working without any sleep for seventy-six hours straight.” He wasn’t sure why the issue was so important to him – only that it was. It was probably his Gryffindor side, which refused to stand for any form of injustice.

Malfoy pulled away to roll his eyes at Harry. “It’s a public hospital, Potter,” he enunciated, as though explaining to a two-year-old. “Your darling Ministry would sooner buy more ridiculously overpriced dragonhide gloves for its Aurors” – he jerked his chin toward Harry’s own pair for emphasis – “than fund any of its understaffed hospitals.”

“That’s not fair.”

“That’s just the way things are,” replied Malfoy, losing the anger that hardened his voice and allowing weariness to replace it. He shook his head, as though shaking himself out of a reverie, and rose to his feet without looking at Harry. “There. Your bandages are all done. They’re spelled with water resistance, but it’s best not to overdo it.”

“Thank you.” Harry stared numbly at his feet, somehow reluctant to leave yet sheepish that he had taken up so much of the Slytherin’s time when Malfoy seemed halfway to becoming a ghost, considering his increased pallor and pronounced shadows.

Malfoy opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it with an audible _plop_. Before he could say anything, the nurse who had been with him earlier rushed into the ward, her hands coated with fresh scarlet.

“Imogen?” demanded Malfoy, his face transforming into rigid lines and angles that Harry was certain were sharp enough to draw blood. “What is it?”

“It’s one of the kids from the bus,” she said, sounding shrill with hysteria. “He’s going to _die_ , Draco – I was assisting with the operation but – oh, Merlin, he was in so much pain even after we spelled him – please hurry, we need you.”

Malfoy gripped her shoulders and nodded once, a grim set to his mouth. “Of course.” He turned to Harry and said, “Stay here. I’ll be back.”

“I’m fine now,” said Harry, embarrassed.

“Stay here,” repeated Malfoy firmly. “I’ll return later to check on your wrist.” His mouth tightened with visible fatigue as he waited for Harry to object.

Instead, Harry felt warmth flutter through his chest. Was Malfoy concerned about his wellbeing? _He’s just doing his job_ , he reasoned. Still, even the reminder couldn’t quell the thrill coursing in his bloodstream.

“I’ll be here,” he agreed. “Go – don’t tire yourself out too much.”

Malfoy blinked at him, uncertainty softening his features, before turning to follow Nurse Imogen out of the ward.

Without Malfoy’s unavoidable presence, the ward seemed abruptly cold and lifeless, even with the continual, hacking coughs of Harry’s elderly neighbour. He stretched out his legs on the bed, then curled on his side. Then, he straightened himself to stare toward the ceiling.

Eleven minutes later, Harry crept out of the ward. He paused, lost, in the doorway for a full minute before Malfoy’s words came back to him, and he knew with sudden clarity where he needed to go.

After asking two nurses and one Trainee Healer clad in the standard olive green, Harry found himself in the hospital cafeteria, clutching a cup of boiling tasteless coffee in one hand while the other carried a tray laden with various assorted hospital foods, which consisted of: a sandwich containing a single slice of tomato and cheese, an unidentifiable sludge working undercover as soup, and a sticky toffee pudding.

He had just finished the sandwich and begun to make progress on the pudding when Malfoy reappeared, like an apparition summoned by the smell of sticky toffee. Harry paused, his spoon halfway to his mouth, and gestured to the now-lukewarm coffee beside the bed.

Seeming too worn out to interrogate whether Harry had injected poison into the beverage, Malfoy wrapped trembling hands around the cup and downed it in one. Harry was relieved to see focus return to his eyes, removing the look of glazed-over emptiness that almost scared Harry.

“Thanks,” said Malfoy, in a subdued tone.

Harry started. Insults, he had been handling for years, but a well-mannered Malfoy who didn’t act like they were mortal enemies? It was a whole new playing field, and Harry had no idea where he stood. But maybe he liked it, this newness that caused his heart to leap into his throat. “Um. You’re welcome? How’s the boy?”

Malfoy’s gaze seemed to focus in distant lands, far from the bleak hospital ward. When he spoke, Harry strained to hear his words. “He’s dead.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not – it’s hardly anyone’s fault, in particular,” said Malfoy, sounding as though it were dreadfully obvious. The thick derision layering his voice seemed incongruent with the indecipherable blankness taking up his face. “He had already lost too much blood before we were even notified of the accident.”

Harry had never known Malfoy beyond sneered words and curled lips, but he recalled the number of deaths that he had been involved in during his time as an Auror, and the words that echoed in his mind every time he had failed to prevent such a death: _It’s your fault. It’s all your fault._

“There’s nothing you could have done,” he said, in as gentle a voice as he could muster for his self-proclaimed Slytherin arch-nemesis.

“I know that, asshole,” snapped Malfoy quickly, regaining fervour and colour in his cheeks. He tossed the coffee cup into the trash and began to work on Harry’s wrist.

Harry frowned to no one in particular, and poked out his tongue to lick off residue of sticky toffee from the corner of his mouth. Malfoy sure was one puzzling creature, he thought.

And it was then, sitting on the edge of the hospital bed with the lingering taste of toffee on his tongue, that Harry James Potter settled upon a brand-new resolution in his life: he was going to figure out the grand mystery of Draco Lucius Malfoy if it was the last thing he did.


	3. Seeking Solace in Starlight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another Thursday, another chapter! Hope all's going well, and happy reading xxxx

Directly overhead, few stars dared to peek through London’s characteristic blanket of smog, turning the night sky into a haze of grey rather than an endless pool of ink. Tipping his chin back to expose his throat to the breeze, Harry rested his hands upon the balcony railing and envisioned a twinkling canopy of constellations.

Bringing two fingers to his lips, he took a long drag of the cigarette. As he exhaled, a plume of smoke trailed from his mouth and spiralled into the sky, the final breath of a dying dragon.

Behind him, the apartment building rang out with silence. With its two bedrooms and enviable kitchen, the flat with a largely unobstructed view of the Thames had cost a fortune to buy, but eighteen-year-old, lovestruck Harry had believed he’d already won the lottery in his engagement to Ginny Weasley, soon to be Potter.

Six months later, all he had left was a gaping chasm in his bank account, an oversized flat with a lonely view, and a matching pair of engagement rings.

Their romance, born in the heart of battle, had guttered and dwindled in the face of reality, as she pursued her dreams of a professional Quidditch career, rising before the dawn and returning after dusk to train, and he immersed himself in Auror training, spending his nights on the sofa poring over historical cases and practising battle manoeuvres in the living room. On the few, miraculous nights that they happened to be home at the same time, both Harry and Ginny would be too exhausted to do anything aside from sleep.

Then, the sun would rise, and the cycle would restart.

If you loved someone, you needed to know when to let them go.

Drawing a final drag from the cigarette, Harry crushed it into the ashtray and returned to the interior of the flat. He glanced at the clock on the wall and swore – Hermione was going to have his head if he was late. Snatching an overcoat from the rack by the door and a bottle of Merlot from the kitchen counter, Harry tossed a handful of Floo powder into the fireplace as he stepped inside, careful to speak slowly and clearly.

Within moments, he re-opened his eyes to a living room lit with golden candles, an immediate visual contrast to the dim grey of his flat, illuminated weakly by the lights of the lively city below. From around the corner, Ron popped his head into the room. His face split into a wide beam.

“Harry!”

“Harry, is that you?” Hermione appeared to squeeze his sides with a quick hug, before vanishing back into the kitchen. “You’re late!” she called over her shoulder.

“I know, I know.” Harry brushed soot and cinders from his trousers before joining her and Ron and in the kitchen. “How’s dinner going?”

“She’s refusing to use any magic,” said Ron, with an exasperated tone. “I told you, ’Mione, this would be so much faster if we’d just – ”

Hermione shushed him without turning around. “Oh, just cut the onions, Ronald. It’s an old family recipe, and we’re doing it exactly the way it’s meant to be done. Harry, you can wash these plates.”

As Harry scrubbed oil and grime from the Granger-Weasley household’s mismatched assortment of dinnerware and cutlery, the three of them lapsed into comfortable rhythms of conversation that made Harry’s chest ache with how familiar it all felt.

“Hey, Harry, didn’t Kingsley assign you to a new case this week?” asked Ron as he wiped away tears with the back of his hand, blinking furiously against the onslaught of the onions.

“Yeah, this missing persons case.” Harry grunted while he tried to remove a particularly obstinate stain. “In the past month, four kids in the region – all from pureblood families – have been reported missing under similar suspicious circumstances.”

“Which are?” prompted Hermione, clearly perking up at the idea of a puzzle to solve. Sometimes Harry wondered what they would be able to achieve with a mind like hers working in the Auror Department.

“Well, for starters, they’re all under eleven, so they would’ve been easy to kidnap, especially without any knowledge or control of magic. Three of the children had been waiting for their parents at pre-Hogwarts tutoring classes on the day of their disappearance, and one of them was in a playground before she vanished from right under her mother’s nose.”

Ron interjected, his tone thoughtful, “So in other words, they were all in situations where an adult – maybe using Polyjuice to look like their parents – could’ve easily convinced them that he or she would take them home.”

“Exactly.” Harry nodded, impressed by Ron’s acuity, a sort of sixth sense that had been honed by years of strategical Auror training. “So I’m thinking, foul play.”

Hermione hummed in wordless agreement. “Curious how they’re all pureblood, isn’t it?”

“Maybe the perps still have a bone to pick with ol’ Voldy,” suggested Ron.

“Seems likely,” Harry agreed.

Hermione whirled around, wiping her palms on the front of her apron. “Ron, you take over the stew while I set up the table. Harry, would you mind peeling and chopping the potatoes?” Once the boys had mumbled their responses, she flashed a grateful grin and receded into the dining room.

As Harry finished peeling the potatoes and raised his knife to chop them, Ron spoke. “I think I’m going to ask her to marry me.”

Harry yelped loudly, recoiling from the counter and clutching his finger to his chest. In his shock, the knife had come down before he could think to move his finger out of the way, resulting in a cut that grazed the skin off his knuckle. He swore, quietly this time, and sucked on his bleeding finger, all the while glaring at Ron.

“Sorry, mate, you okay?” Ron held out his palms apologetically.

Harry heaved a tremendous sigh, resigning himself to the fact that his best mate was an absolute idiot. “Where was this proposal five years ago?” he demanded. “Now _Percy’s_ going to win the family bet – is that what you wanted?”

“I don’t know, I was scared,” confessed Ron as he stirred the pot in a clockwise motion, gazing into its steaming contents as though they would reveal the answer to the universe. “I didn’t know if we would last. You know how it is when you’re so young.”

Harry thought of sleeping in a cold bed, where he could stretch out his arms and legs like a disgruntled starfish and still find more space to fill. “Yeah, I do.”

Ron looked briefly stricken at possibly bringing up nasty memories for Harry, before he surged on. “But it’s been over nine years since the war, and we’ve both got stable jobs right now, and we’ve been living together for so long I can’t imagine not having her obnoxious voice pestering me every day.” He grinned at the very thought. “And, besides, I don’t want to. The other day, I came down for breakfast and she’d made my toast the way I like it, and she was just sitting at the table doing the crossword in that Muggle newspaper, all concentrated and intense like it was the end of the world, and there was this little frown line in the middle of her forehead and I stopped on the stairs and I just thought, _Man, I can’t wait to call her my wife._ ”

Lowering his bleeding hand, Harry took a step forward and engulfed his friend in a crushing hug. “I’m happy for you guys,” he said into Ron’s ear. “You have no idea how much.”

“Thanks, Harry. It really means a lot.” Ron patted his back a couple times, and Harry released him.

“I just don’t know how I’m going to be able to play the role of your best man,” he said, assuming a troubled expression, “as well as Hermione’s maid of honour.”

Ron cackled in delight, only to freeze when Hermione entered, levelling a curious look at the two of them. Clearing his throat, Ron said, “Can you believe, ’Mione, that this guy right here” – Ron jerked his chin toward Harry – “actually agreed to go to the hospital without putting up a fight for once in his sorry life?”

Hermione beamed proudly at him. “Oh, Harry! Is this a sign of you finally becoming a sensible, mature adult?”

“Screw you guys,” muttered Harry as his two best friends burst into entirely unwarranted laughter. His finger stung sharply, as if in indignant reminder, and he brought it back to his mouth.

“Why don’t you go and get that checked out at St. Mungo’s?” said Ron between snickers.

“It’s really not that funny,” grumbled Harry, and promptly flipped him off, but not without the suggestion creeping into his mind. No, of course he wasn’t about to go to the hospital over a bleeding finger, even if said hospital was home to a particularly puzzling Healer.

* * *

Della the receptionist cocked an unimpressed eyebrow at the sight of his bloody finger, barely bothering to shut her issue of Witch Weekly in his presence anymore. “Really?”

“There was a lot of blood earlier,” stressed Harry, maintaining a truly pitiful expression. “Is Healer Malfoy here?”

She squinted closely at him, clearly trying to decipher his ulterior motives. “He should be just finishing up his shift right about now, but if you need a Healer, I can get you someone else to look after that finger.”

Harry ignored the faint swoop of disappointment in his chest, and made a great display of re-examining the offending finger. “Actually, you know what? I reckon I might just pull through– even with the huge blood loss from earlier,” he added, pointedly.

“Whatever.” Della waved a dismissive, ruby-nailed hand and returned to perusing the pages of her magazine with a degree of diligence that could probably end world famine.

As he stepped out from the window of the dilapidated department store that concealed St. Mungo’s Hospital from unsuspecting Muggle eyes, Harry tugged the lapels of his coat tightly around himself as a desperate shelter from the wind that had just picked up. Despite his best efforts, the night’s chill scraped his skin’s surface, leaving goose flesh and raised hairs in its wake.

Rather than Apparate back to the enclosed warmth of his Chelsea flat, Harry plunged his hands into the pockets of his coat and turned in meandering circles about the kerb, as though his feet were yet uncertain of their direction.

Emotion rose within his chest until it threatened to choke his throat. Without consciously expecting to gain anything from the late-night hospital visit, Harry discovered with a curious shock that he was almost disappointed with the result – yet whatever he had been searching for still remained a mystery.

Forcibly swallowing his disappointment, Harry angled a careless kick towards the base of a nearby streetlamp and then removed his foot with a flash of self-consciousness upon realising it didn’t make him feel much better.

“Salazar save us,” exclaimed a familiar voice amid the quiet, causing Harry to whirl around instantly as his throat closed up for another reason entirely. “The great Saviour Potter has gone proper mad, alright.”

Beside the crumbling brick exterior of Purge and Dowse, Malfoy watched him from where the shadows engulfed most of his figure, sparing only faint, shimmering glimpses of his hair. His eyes flashed, sharp and clear and forever startling no matter how many times they focused on Harry, as they caught the lamplight.

Harry shuffled his weight from one foot to the next, his mind whirring with possible excuses. “I cut myself,” he blurted out, and brandished the offending finger as evidence. Malfoy didn’t appear too impressed, merely crossing his arms and continuing to observe him. “In the kitchen.”

“It’s nearly midnight, Potter,” pointed out Malfoy, with more than a degree of incredulity. “Why don’t you go home to the Weaslette rather than bother people who have actual purpose in their lives?”

Harry drew himself upright, bristling with annoyance. How could he have ever forgotten, even for a moment, how vastly infuriating Malfoy could be? You couldn’t ever hold an actual, civil conversation with him, no matter how hard you tried – not that Harry had been trying particularly hard, of course – or even at all. God knew his cronies back in school deserved a trophy for not once hexing his tongue off throughout all those years.

He opened his mouth, ready to overspill with a deluge of insults, when something struck him from Malfoy’s words. He paused on a breath, frowning. “I’m not with Ginny anymore. We broke up years ago.”

“Oh.” Malfoy cleared his throat. “Well, in any case, aren’t you much better off doing whatever it is you do to pretend your life has meaning instead of standing here in the dark on a Sunday night?”

“You’re _literally_ hidden away in the dark,” said Harry, unable to keep the disbelief from his tone. “You’re like some sort of posh supervillain, hiding in the shadows with all your little plots and schemes and conspiracies.”

Malfoy sounded vaguely amused when he spoke, making Harry grit his teeth at the thought of Malfoy laughing at him. “And what schemes and conspiracies might those be? Please do tell, I was just experiencing a personal conundrum about whether I should blow up the London Eye or set fire to Big Ben.”

“Y'know what, why don’t you fuck off already, Malfoy? No one’s got time to deal with your nonsense.” Harry took a step backwards, about to Apparate away from St. Mungo’s and Malfoy’s practically audible sneer when Malfoy stepped forwards, and the shadows slid from his body to reveal a blatant lack of lime-green robes.

Harry suspected he was gawking rather rudely, but he couldn’t drag his eyes away, out of pure shock. He could have never expected Malfoy in Muggle clothing of any sort – yet there he stood, barely two metres from Harry, wearing a long, dark coat with the collar turned up and a button-up inside and, to top it all off, jeans.

The sight of the distressed denim was the final straw; Harry laughed, and then clapped a hand upon his mouth to stifle any other pesky laughs that might attempt to escape.

“Something funny, Potter?” Malfoy glowered at him, reminding Harry of a cornered animal.

He shook his head quickly. “No, no,” he said, and then, unable to help himself, blurted, “Since when do you wear Muggle clothes?”

“Since – oh, how silly of me,” Malfoy interrupted himself, rolling his eyes skyward. “I forgot, it’s quite frankly none of your bloody business. Since when do you care what I wear?” He levelled a pointed look at Harry. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I seem to recall you going so far as to make a decent attempt on my life.”

Harry felt as though someone had violently seized the air from his lungs, leaving them painfully hollow and lacking. His mouth attempted to form words – excuses, apologies, _anything_ to regain his breath. But his tongue remained soundless and his lungs remained hollow and he could only stand helplessly on the pavement, crumbling beneath the mass of unspoken words built up throughout the years, looking at Malfoy and picturing dark stains that would soak through his Muggle clothes.

Eventually, Malfoy’s huffed sigh brought Harry from his reverie. He pinched the bridge of his nose as air began to leak into Harry’s windpipe. “By Merlin’s goddamned beard, surely you aren’t still hung up on that? Potter, that was _years_ ago. We were children back then, and absolute fools – though, to be fair, those seem to go hand-in-hand generally.”

Harry clenched and unclenched his hands, appreciating the pain of his nails digging into the flesh of his palms as a reminder of where he was; that he was alive and holding a conversation with Draco Malfoy without flinging hexes and overt insults; that the war had ended and all was well.

“I didn’t know,” managed Harry, while his fingernails curved deeper into his skin. “I’m so – ”

“Don’t you dare,” said Malfoy instantly. His grey eyes were bright with an acute fury, reminding Harry of the way the sky lights up with a flash of lightning during a thunderstorm, fleetingly transforming the otherwise impenetrable darkness. “Don’t you dare apologise, Potter – not now, not about _that_. You can’t begin to understand how long I – ” He jerked to a halt mid-sentence, ran a hand through his hair to smooth it against his head, and then released another sigh, this one far wearier than the last. “Just don’t. Don’t even try, alright? You can go be the bigger person somewhere else, as long as it’s far away from me.”

Harry spared a brief glance toward his palms to discover angry red crescents. “I’m not trying to be the bigger person,” he argued, hating how weak his voice sounded even in the silence. “It’s not right to ever do…y’know, something like that to anyone.”

“Oh, spare me the speech.” Malfoy flicked his gaze heavenward, as if seeking divine intervention that would allow him to escape the situation. Another heartbeat of quiet passed between them before he deemed the world worthy of his time once more, and frowned at Harry. “If you must, Potter,” he said, sounding as though it took immense willpower to suppress a sigh, “you may earn my forgiveness.”

“How?” Harry tried not to shudder at some of the possibilities his mind conjured up.

“I’ll allow you to buy me a present,” said Malfoy, with a dignified sniff.

“A present?”

“Yes, you are aware of what those are, aren’t you? Certainly you must have received plenty over the years from your hordes of fans, thanking you for saving the world?”

Harry ignored the jibe, reminding himself it hardly served his interest to continually antagonise the person he was currently trying to earn the forgiveness of. “What sort of present?”

“Well, that’s the challenge, isn’t it? What fun is anything without a challenge?”

It was a challenge, Harry could safely acknowledge. For the first time, he realised how little he truly knew of Malfoy, despite arguably stalking him for a large portion of their shared childhoods. Yet, something about the idea of carefully piecing together who Malfoy was, like gathering clues on a case, gave Harry a tingling sense through his veins. There were so many unanswered questions, and here was Harry’s opportunity to finally delve into the heart of the matter.

Besides, what sort of Gryffindor would he be, to back down so easily from a challenge, especially one proposed by his former arch-nemesis?

“I’ll get you the best damn present there is,” promised Harry, part of him uncertain who exactly he was competing with, but accepting the fact that it was a competition that he could not bear to lose.

Malfoy frowned, even as his lips twitched. “I’d like to see you try.”

“Oh, I won’t just try,” said Harry, backing away. “I’ll win the whole blasted thing, you just watch.”

He waved his wand and watched the surroundings fluidly melt away – the streetlamp flushing the street with a dim golden glow, the red brick exterior of Purge and Dowse, and a Muggle-dressed Malfoy with a look of tremendous bewilderment upon his face.

Through the _crack_ of Apparition, Harry heard a final shout, thick with exasperation: “Win what _thing_?”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks a ton for reading up to here! Any form of feedback is greatly appreciated. Anyway, hope to see you next time xxx


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